


Why We Are Afraid

by acme146



Series: Fading Scars [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bellatrix Lestrange Bashing, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Is that tag necessary?, Memories of Trauma, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9632051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acme146/pseuds/acme146
Summary: When Hermione was a little girl, she used to have nightmares about nothing. Now that she's grown up, her nightmares have more meaning.Luckily the good gets passed down with the bad.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The marks humans leave are too often scars. –John Green, ‘The Fault in Our Stars’

The best part about being married, Hermione often reflected, was that she rarely woke up alone.

            As a little girl, she had terrible nightmares. She could never remember them upon waking, and though her parents tried to help they eventually told her that she couldn’t keep waking them up. She was a big girl now, her mother explained gently, and why didn’t she try to read and fall back to sleep with a story in her head? So Hermione would wake up in the dark, calm her racing heart to an acceptable pulse, and then reach for her bookshelf.

            When she went to Hogwarts, the nightmares became less frequent and they usually had something to do with whatever mad things she and her friends were doing (the troll occupied her dreams for a solid three weeks). She didn’t tell her roommates, though—they weren’t responsible for calming her down or helping her sleep, and anyways, weren’t there potions? Afraid of becoming dependent on magic things (how could she explain that in the summer?) Hermione just kept a stack of books by her bed—all her ‘light reading’ paid off in class but that was simply a bonus.

            Then the war happened, and that horrible year, and seeing so many people die, and being hurt and lost and hungry and afraid…she’d had nightmares almost nightly for three years running. It was better, then—Ron was there, and he spent as many nights a week as he could in her dormitory simply holding her. After all, he had nightmares too.

            Professor McGonagall kept her mouth shut and the staircase a staircase at all times.

            Hermione didn’t marry Ron just to keep the nightmares away, of course—that would be stupid, and she could just as easily marry her bookcase. She loved him, he loved her, and they wanted to get married. So they did, and for the first time in her life there was only one book on her bedside table.

            Then work began, and Rose was born, and Hugo, and working and wifehood and motherhood filled her head until Hermione no longer had much room for nightmares. They still happened, of course they did, but she joined the group at St. Mungo’s and kept working to give her children and the rest of the wizarding world the best chance at happiness she could and Ron was almost always there to comfort her when they did come.

            Except one time he wasn’t.

            It was an ordinary April day, and Ron was heading to France with George. They’d been meaning to expand for ages, and now Fleur’s dad had helped them set up a meeting with the national joke shop industry to see if they would welcome the foreigners. Hermione would have loved to go with him, but this would be a short trip.

            “You’re all coming if this goes through,” Ron promised when he kissed her goodbye. “We’ll take a week and go to the beach!”

            Hermione laughed as Ron swung seven-year-old Hugo into his arms. “Of course it’ll go through—you and George will have them laughing in seconds!”

            Ron beamed at her, kissed the top of Rose’s head and handed Hugo back reluctantly as George pounded on the horn of the “absolutely _not_ a flying car, Mrs. Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement. It just…goes rather fast. And high.”

            Hermione took Rose and Hugo to the park and pushed them both on the swings until they got bored. Then a quick ice cream, a walk home, an early dinner and bedtime stories until they fell asleep. Hermione carried Hugo back to his room—Rose didn’t like sleeping with her brother anymore: “he kicks, Mummy!”

            Hermione went to bed herself soon after, wishing Ron was there. _He’s back tomorrow,_ she told herself sternly. _Don’t fuss._

She only read about thirty pages of her book before she fell asleep.

* * *

 

            She sat bolt upright in the dead of the night, tears streaming down her cheeks and her own screams echoing in her ears. Had she cried out aloud? Woken the children? They were too young to hear their mother cry out from memories of torture, of pain so strong she swore she could still feel it…

            The letters on her arm had faded long ago, the carvings not deep enough to scar permanently. Now, though, Hermione rubbed her arm, trying to convince herself it wasn’t bleeding, that the woman whose laugh was still ringing in her memory was long dead.

            She wished Ron were there.

            “Mummy?”

            Hermione turned the lights on with barely a thought. Rose stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “Are you okay, Mummy?”

            Hermione wiped her eyes quickly. “I’m alright, sweet,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

            Rose’s eyes were huge. Hermione rarely cried in front of her children. “No, I was already awake. But I heard you call out—I thought you were in trouble.”

            Hermione was about to apologize, then something in Rose’s posture stopped her. “Did you have a bad dream, Rosie?”

            Rose nodded, eyes welling up. “I don’t remember it, but it was really scary.”

            Hermione held out her arms. “Come here, sweet.”

            Rose didn’t hesitate, climbing quickly into bed and snuggling into Hermione’s embrace. “I don’t like them,” she whispered. “They hurt.”

            Hermione rested her cheek against Rose’s soft red hair. “How long have they been going on?”

            Rose was trembling. “A month, I think. I thought they might stop on their own, but they _haven’t._ ” A sob was smothered.

            Hermione tightened her arms and sat up, rocking slightly back and forth the way she had when Rose was only a baby. “Hush, Rosie. It’s alright.”

            “I was trying to be brave—”

            “Brave?” Hermione asked softly. “What do you mean?”

            Rose hiccupped. “I want to be brave like you and Daddy, but they’re _scary_ and I don’t know how to fight them.”

            Hermione didn’t say anything for a minute. “I want you to listen to me carefully, Rosie. It’s not cowardly to have bad dreams, especially dreams like that. I had them too, when I was a little girl.”

            Rose looked up at her, blinking tears out of her blue eyes. “Really?”

            “I did.” Hermione continued to rock, stroking her daughter’s hair. “And do you know what? They did go away eventually, and I learned how to deal with them. But here’s what I want you to do.” She looked straight into Rose’s eyes. “When you have a bad dream, no matter what time it is, I want you to come find me or Daddy, alright? I don’t care what’s going on. You can always come to us when you’re afraid.”

            “What about when I’m at Hogwarts?”

            Hermione smiled, glad that she’d helped Harry figure this out with Ginny and their kids. “When you go away, I’ll give you one of the two-way mirrors that Uncle Harry and I made, alright? Then you can still talk to us when you need to.”

            Rose was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to bother you forever.”

            “You’ll never bother us,” Hermione said firmly. “We’re your parents, it’s our job to help you. We can help you find ways to calm down on your own, but no matter what ends up working or not working you can always come to us, sweet.”

            Rose seemed satisfied with this, and burrowed closer to Hermione. Hermione stopped rocking and just leaned back against her stacked pillows.

            She thought Rose had fallen asleep, but a moment later she spoke up. “Did you have a bad dream tonight, Mummy?”

            Hermione flinched. “Yes, sweet, but it wasn’t like yours. It was a memory—a bad one, but I know what it was about, and it’s okay.”

            “What was it about?”

            Hermione hesitated. Rose had found out too much about the war already; she had a bad habit of looking for answers when she wasn’t given them (where _had_ she gotten that from?) and had learned too many details for a child of nine. It wasn’t right, surely, to give her anymore.

            But she didn’t want to lie, and it would stop Rose from roping Teddy into telling her more stories (the poor lad, he didn’t deserve any more lectures).

            “I was dreaming about Bellatrix Lestrange,” she said carefully. “She…hurt me, a long time ago. But don’t worry, she’s dead.”

            “I _know_ that, Mummy.” Hermione couldn’t help smiling at her daughter’s tone. “But…she hurt you?”

            Hermione shuddered involuntarily. “Yes. Not like she did to other people,” she added quickly, “and Dobby helped Daddy and Uncle Harry save me—”

            “But she still hurt you,” Rose argued. “And that’s bad, Mummy. I’m glad Grandma killed her.”

            Hermione swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t hate her for what she did to me, Rosie. Hate her for the worse things.”

            Rose cocked her head. “Why shouldn’t I hate her because of you, Mummy? I know she did bad things to other people—she killed people—but she still hurt you, and now she’s giving you bad dreams. That’s still bad _._ You don’t have to say it isn’t.”

            Hermione wanted to protest—Sirius, Tonks, Neville’s parents, so many others had been through worse at Bellatrix’s hands—but something in Rose’s sharp gaze told her it was better not to argue. She knew where that look came from.

            “Alright, Rosie. It was bad.”

            Rose seemed satisfied. “It was,” she said gravely, “but she’s gone now, and that was just a bad dream.” She tugged on Hermione’s neck until Hermione lay down next to her. She kissed Hermione’s cheek. “Go to sleep, Mummy. I’ll stay here with you.”

            Hermione flicked the light off, hoping that Rose couldn’t quite see her tears. “Go to sleep, my Rosie,” she whispered back. “I’ll stay here too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed! There should be another story in this 'verse coming out in the next couple of days, though it won't be in this format.  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


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